


Cinema Vérité

by MacPherson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9936011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: Grantaire lets that news sink in as he makes his way out to his car.He has a realistic chance at working with Enjolras.Not only working with him, but co-starring in what allegedly has the potential to be the biggest gay rom-com ever.It’s a fucking nightmare.





	

“You want me to do _what_?” Grantaire squeaks.

To his immense credit, Bahorel remains stone-faced.

"At least audition, R. It can’t hurt.”

"Can’t I just keep doing shitty slap-stick comedies?” Grantaire is outright whining now. “Why do I have to do serious shit? That book is so pretentious.”

“Pretentious it may be, but we’re talking shitloads of money here.”

“You know I don’t care about the money. I just want to enjoy the work I do. I doubt any director would be happy with me rolling my eyes with every single line I deliver.”

“I’ll tell you who the producers are eyeing for the other lead.”

“Is that supposed to convince me to actually consider this role?”

“Enjolras.”

Grantaire tries very, very hard not to react. He’s an actor. It should be easy.

Bahorel, that bastard, has the beginning of a grin that can only be described as shit-eating. “I’ve got you interested now, don’t I?”

“You are the absolute fucking worst.” Grantaire stands up and tries to make it seem like he’s storming out of his agent’s office in a huff.

“Just read the script and go to the audition, will you?”

“Only if you can convince the publicists to cut my interviews for the next release by half.”

He’s out of the office before he can hear how Bahorel responds.

 _Enjolras_.

Grantaire lets that news sink in as he makes his way out to his car.

He has a realistic chance at working with _Enjolras_.

Not only working with him, but co-starring in what allegedly has the potential to be the biggest gay rom-com ever.

It’s a fucking nightmare.

One of the few promises he’s made to himself that he actually intends to keep is to never, ever do a rom-com. He finds them nauseating.

But… _Enjolras_.

Enjolras is one of those actors that everyone wants to work with. Studios fall over themselves to sign him up for their projects, even though he talks openly (and often) about how the commercialism of the studio system stifles art and churns out piles of distressingly similar, distressingly white, distressingly cis and het movies.

Whatever. Grantaire doesn’t really see the point in that little crusade, because Hollywood is Hollywood and as long as the straight white dudes in power pretend that straight white dudes are the only ones whose money matters, they’ll keep making the same straight white dude movies. Which will keep Grantaire employed.

Since the film adaptation of _Somewhere to Begin_ was announced, the novel’s fans have been salivating, eagerly lapping up every bit of news that appears, and speculating non-stop on casting.

That Enjolras is being considered for one of the leads is hardly surprising.

That Bahorel seems to think that Grantaire could merit serious consideration from the studio is laughable.

Especially because he doesn’t want the role.

* * *

Grantaire is watching one of the late night talk shows to pass the time. So maybe the promos had made a big thing about the fact that Enjolras would be on the show that night. That Grantaire has chosen to watch that show in particular is definitely a complete coincidence.

Enjolras and his co-star Eponine are promoting the latest installment of a superhero action movie franchise. After showing a short clip from the movie, the host introduces them, and they come out onto the set to thunderous applause.

Before they’re even settled on the couch, the host’s first question, directed at Eponine, is about how she prepared for the skintight costume she wears for most of the movie.

“Well of course there’s pressure to look a certain way,” it isn’t Eponine who answers the question, but Enjolras. “My preparation wasn’t focused on how I would look in the costumes, but about becoming the character and being able to do my stunts—only about fifty percent of which are actually me. We have an amazing cast of stunt actors who do not receive anything like as much recognition for their incredible work as they deserve.”

“Speaking of becoming the character, Enjolras,” the host says, “how has your character changed since the previous film in the series?”

Enjolras looks at Eponine, who is grinning. And it’s Eponine who answers the question.

“Well the previous film, for my character, was largely about her learning that she has these powers, and learning how to use them. In this film, she’s really come into her own, and she’s a fully-fledged member of this wonderful team. That’s not to say that it’s easy for her. Something that I really wanted to do with this film was show how dynamic she is. She’s a character with a lot of dimensions. So often with female characters, particularly in action movies, it’s all about strong women, strong women, strong women. And yes, the ass-kicking is important, but not if it comes at the expense of the character being a fully fleshed out human being, or in this case, mutant. I really wanted to portray her strength and her vulnerability, because vulnerability isn’t a weakness.”

That gets a huge round of applause from the audience.

The host asks another question. “You’re one of the actors being mentioned as potential leads in the film adaptation of _Somewhere to Begin_. Any news on that?”

This time, Enjolras answers the question posed to him.

“Well it’s a really exciting project. It’s a great book, and I’m really looking forward to the film, whether I’m a part of it or not.”

With cosmically perfect timing, Grantaire’s phone buzzes with a text from Bahorel.

_Just heard that Enjolras has officially signed on to star. You have a chemistry test on Tuesday morning._

Grantaire groans, and hits himself in the head with a throw pillow.

* * *

_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_  
_I never knew daylight could be so violent_  
_A revelation in the light of day  
_ _You can't choose what stays and what fades away_

 _And I'd do anything to, to make you stay_  
_No light, no light  
_ _Tell me what you want me to say_

* * *

Fighting every self-preservation instinct he has, and all of his better judgment, of which there isn’t much, Grantaire shows up to the audition Bahorel booked.

The studio—a small, indie one run by some of Enjolras’ best friends—is so laidback that he wanders past the reception desk and down the hall without anyone stopping him or even giving him a second glance.

There seems to be a fair amount of activity centered around one door, so Grantaire figures that would be a good place to ask for directions. Since he’s already in the building, he might as well bother with the actual audition.

He approaches someone who looks sane, and like they might have a clue what’s going on.

“Hi. I’m here to audition for _My Big Fat Gay Rom-Com_. Am I in the right place?”

“For _Somewhere to Begin_? Yeah. Come on in. I’m Combeferre. The producer.”

“Grantaire. Nice to meet you.”

It isn’t.

He greets the other producers and the director (Courfeyrac—one of Enjolras’ closest friends; they met in film school. Don’t ask Grantaire how he knows that.). And then there’s no more putting it off—he’s face to face with Enjolras.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“And I’m equally thrilled to be working with you,” Grantaire almost spits out in response to Enjolras’ less-than-enthusiastic greeting.

Courfeyrac saves them from any further awkwardness by telling them which scene he wants them to read.

It’s the climax, of course.

The scene where the two leads finally confess their love, untangle their crossed wires, and end up furiously making out.

Well, if Grantaire only has this one chance to act opposite Enjolras, he will make the most of it. He will embrace the cheesiness of this script. He will throw himself whole-heartedly into its gooeyness. He will become a mozzarella stick if that is what is required.

He only has a handful of lines in this scene—this audition is more about whether the sparks fly between him and Enjolras than it is about his acting ability. He reads over the scene one more time and places his copy of the screenplay on a chair.

The scene in the movie will have much more door-slamming and chasing each other around the by-now-restored bed and breakfast that serves as the catalyst for the plot, but for now, he and Enjolras have the open floor of the studio to work with.

Enjolras is certainly making use of the space. He’s about as far away from Grantaire as it is possible to be while remaining in the same room.

“Okay, are we ready?” Courfeyrac asks.

Grantaire nods.

“Great. Action.”

Something comes alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire sees the shift in Enjolras. His drooped shoulders become square, his jaw sets, and as he turns toward Grantaire, there is unmistakable fire in his eyes.

Grantaire’s character—Eddie—isn’t supposed to be aware of Enjolras’ character’s—Tom’s—presence. He’s supposed to be broken-hearted, thinking the love of his life has left to go back to his life in the big city. But there is no way that Grantaire can ever be unaware of Enjolras.

In only a few strides, Enjolras is in front of him, and his eyes say everything. Remorse. Fear. Hope.

Desire.

“I thought you were going home.” Grantaire had meant to spit the line out, a bitter accusation, a thin veil of anger covering Eddie’s heartbreak. Instead, he sounds just as broken as he feels.

“Chicago isn’t home.”

“Then what is?”

Tom—Enjolras—reaches out to Eddie—Grantaire—and traces a button on his shirt.

“You. You’re my home.”

Grantaire isn’t entirely sure whether the gravitational pull he’s feeling is an acting choice that one of them is making or not. His eyes briefly flutter closed.

Tom—Enjolras—continues. The hand has migrated up to Eddie’s—Grantaire’s face now, brushing gently through his hair.

“All those years… I wondered how you were. I wondered if you missed me as much as I missed you. I convinced myself that you didn’t care for me, that you were happy with someone else. I told myself that it was hopeless. You were the one that got away.”

Grantaire lets a beat pass, lets the tension build. It’s definitely not because he doesn’t trust his voice.

Enjolras is gazing at him, his eyes earnest and hopeful.

He gulps as dramatically as he can, deliberately taking shallow breaths so his voice will break when he speaks.

“I didn’t get away. I’ve been _right here all along_.”

Grantaire’s imagination helpfully adds some suitably dramatic music that swells to a peak right as Enjolras pulls him in for a breathless kiss.

This is no clinical, rehearsed run-through. Enjolras is solid and demanding, and it would be dangerously easy for Grantaire to believe that this is real.

Enjolras is holding nothing back, and Grantaire lets himself go. He abandons any remaining pretense of acting, and just lets himself enjoy the fact that Enjolras is kissing him.

Enjolras is the one to break the kiss, but he doesn’t let go. If anything, he holds on tighter. He rests his forehead against Grantaire’s, fixing that intense blue gaze on him again.

“Okay, thank you, cut!” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras takes a large step back, and transforms himself back into himself. His brows furrow, his lips purse, he crosses his arms across his chest. He’s cool, aloof, detached.

Grantaire is reeling.

Courfeyrac is looking at Enjolras, his head tilted rather like that of an attentive puppy. He and Enjolras regard each other for several seconds, and it’s only when Courfeyrac nods and scribbles something in the margins of his script that Grantaire realizes that they were having a silent conversation.

About him.

He has never felt this vulnerable in his life.

Less than twenty-four hours later, Grantaire gets The Call.

He verbally accepts the role before he can talk himself out of it, and agrees to go the studio to following morning to finalize and sign the contract.

He ends the phone call, throws his phone across the room, and lets out an impressive string of profanity.

He is well and truly screwed, and it’s his own damn fault.

* * *

_I came across a fallen tree_  
_I felt the branches of it looking at me_  
_Is this the place we used to love?  
_ _Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?_

 _Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?_  
_I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on_  
_So tell me when you're gonna let me in  
_ _I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin_

* * *

Once the contracts are signed, the studio announces the casting, and Grantaire’s social media explodes.

And not in a good way.

The fans of Jehan’s emotional, character-driven novel are decidedly unhappy with the casting of a mediocre comedy actor as one of the leads.

Yes, a handful of fans are defending the casting, saying to trust the producers and director, saying to give Grantaire a chance.

But the vast majority of fans are convinced that the movie is already doomed.

 _How is Enjolras supposed to work with this guy?_ Many of them ask.

Grantaire has a terrible idea.

It will probably disastrously backfire, but he doesn’t really care.

He googles the guitar chords for a song, and goes over the lyrics to make sure he’s remembering them correctly.

Then he sits out on his balcony, and records himself singing it.

He doesn’t even bother watching it back before he posts it on YouTube, linking to it on Twitter.

Masochist that he is, he searches his own name on Tumblr later that evening.

There are gifsets. So, so many gifsets.

Gifsets of him singing. Gifsets of snatches from his and Enjolras’ movies, with quotes from the novel, forecasting what the movie will be like.

He grins. The fans are starting to come around, and he will have so much fun with them. They might even make the whole thing bearable.

* * *

_He said let's get out of this town_  
_Drive out of the city_  
_Away from the crowds_  
_I thought heaven can't help me now_  
_Nothing lasts forever_  
_But this is gonna take me down_  
_He's so tall, and handsome as hell_  
_He's so bad but he does it so well  
_ _I can see the end as it begins my one condition is…_

* * *

 

Enjolras is, without a doubt, the most annoyingly serious actor that Grantaire has ever worked with.

He isn’t Method or anything—he’s pretentious, but not quite _that_ pretentious.

Enjolras has a binder. Grantaire is sure that thing weighs more than most newborn babies.

The binder contains Enjolras’ heavily notated copy of the screenplay, a copy of the novel, and all of the research he’s done to prepare for the role. There’s enough material for a dissertation—no, several dissertations.

Throughout the short rehearsal period, he’s constantly spewing ideas, notes, corrections. He doesn’t interrupt Courfeyrac when he’s directing, or the cinematographer Feuilly, or any member of the creative team, for that matter. He recognizes and respects that they know how to do their jobs.

Grantaire is another matter.

As much as Enjolras likes talking, his communication with Grantaire consists of brief, pointed, corrections accompanied by a glare.

Things are both better and worse once they’re on location in the mountains. It’s stunningly, idyllically beautiful. It becomes a lot easier to understand why his character never left his hometown.

It also becomes a lot harder to avoid Enjolras.

With a few minor exceptions, the movie will be shot in order. It makes much more sense to start with the “run-down” bed and breakfast and film the scenes in chronological order as the “renovations” take place.

Grantaire’s first week on set is spent filming the opening scenes around town, many of them with Musichetta, the actress playing his sister. They spend a lot of their downtime together, too. Within a few days, they have a favorite karaoke bar.

Not only is she devilishly funny, but hanging out with her also counts as work, because they’re developing their sibling bond or some shit. Really, it’s a win all around.

The crew is equally wonderful. The head hair stylist, Cosette, practically adopts him. Coming from almost anyone else, her Mother Hen routine would seem contrived and infantilizing, but Cosette is warm and kind, even when threatening to stab him with a comb unless he stops running his hands through her art.

He promises to try to get better about that, and he even sort of means it.

He’s got a mental countdown to when he films his first scene with Enjolras. It isn’t for another four days. He glances at his phone. Make that eighty-eight hours.

But despite the conspicuous lack of his name on that day’s call sheet, Enjolras is on set anyway, hanging out with the camera crew. He’s peppering Feuilly with questions—not questions meant to undercut him, but questions about technique and why he’s using that lens and that angle. He seems genuinely engrossed in what Feuilly is saying.

And then he glances up, looking at something Feuilly is pointing to, and he makes eye contact with Grantaire. His eyes narrow.

Whatever. Grantaire wants a snack.

He’s standing by the craft services table, about to bite into a doughnut he’s been looking forward to all day, when he’s ambushed.

“Why are you here?”

Once he’s recovered from nearly jumping out of his skin, Grantaire turns to find Enjolras regarding him, arms crossed.

“I’m getting a doughnut.” Grantaire holds it up as evidence. “I trust that’s an acceptable activity to carry out during a break.”

“No, I mean why did you take this role?”

Grantaire takes a bite and shrugs. “It’s a job.”

“But it’s totally different from anything you’ve ever done before. And you certainly don’t seem like you want to be here.”

“Hey, as long as I do my job, what do you care? I’m here to make a movie.” He starts back towards his trailer.

He is completely unsurprised to find Enjolras following him.

“Fine, but why this movie? You know how huge the potential is, how much pressure is on all of us. You seem so completely annoyed by the whole thing—I just want to make sure you’re serious about our mission.”

“Our _mission_? Do you even hear the nonsense you’re spewing?” He stops and turns toward Enjolras, who almost runs into him. “Look, my job is to entertain. If I can make people laugh, make them forget about the mundaneness of life for a few hours, I’ve done my job. Maybe I just wanted a change of pace from my usual shit.”

“That’s it? Don’t you want to make movies that actually _matter_?”

“My movies matter.”

Enjolras snorts. “Yeah, to frat bros whose sense of humor will never evolve past fart jokes.”

“Do you know how many fart jokes Shakespeare wrote?”

“Shakespeare wrote plenty of fart jokes, and sex jokes, but that wasn’t the extent of his writing. He wrote the bawdy stuff _and_ the meaningful stuff. He wove it together.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and steps into his trailer, slamming the door behind him before Enjolras can follow.

* * *

_And I'd give up forever to touch you_  
_'Cause I know that you feel me somehow_  
_You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
_ _And I don't want to go home right now_

* * *

Grantaire dares to believe that maybe the doughnut-stalking incident has cleared the air enough for Enjolras to not openly despise working with him.

He quickly learns that he was very, very wrong.

Almost every time they have a break lasting more than a few seconds, Enjolras is pestering him.

It’s gotten to the point that Grantaire has just resigned himself to having Enjolras trailing after him wherever he goes, finding new and creative ways to tell him he’s wrong about everything.

Grantaire has a whole six minutes of peace in makeup this morning before Enjolras arrives, hands him a coffee, and starts in on the nature of celebrity and the importance of representation. Again.

It is far too early for this. Grantaire used all the fucks he has available today on getting out of bed and into makeup on time, and he has none left for Enjolras’ preaching.

He zones out, happy to let Enjolras just talk to himself.

“…because, I mean, you’re out. And that’s a big deal.”

Grantaire opens his eyes to find that Enjolras is looking at him expectantly.

He sighs, and very, very briefly debates the pros and cons of taking the bait that Enjolras is clearly offering.

“No it’s not. Someone asked me the question on Twitter, and I answered it. I never tried to hide anything, but I also didn’t feel the need to go around yelling about it. It’s not like I was on the cover of _People_ fucking magazine.”

(Enjolras’ “out and proud” moment—not that he was ever in the closet—was on the cover of _Time_ , not _People_ , but that’s neither here nor there.)

“Exactly. I’ve seen the way you interact with your fans on Twitter. And Tumblr. And Instagram. And YouTube. They see something in you that you don’t want to admit is there. Something real. You can’t tell me that you don’t care how your work impacts people.”

“They laugh. That’s how my work impacts people.”

For a moment, Grantaire thinks he’s broken Enjolras. Enjolras sputters and then goes silent for a moment. When he speaks again, it’s with carefully measured calm.

“Stories can change the world. There’s a reason we have mythology and folklore. We tell stories that explain how we become who we are, and we tell stories about how we want the world to be.”

He takes a sip of coffee when the makeup artist steps away. He’s not particular about it, and rarely orders the same thing two days in a row.

The coffee Enjolras brought him is prepared exactly the way Grantaire ordered it last Thursday.

He resolves not to think about what that means.

“People go to the movies for escapism, not to be reminded of the shittiness of the world.”

“But don’t you see how this movie can be both? It _is_ escapism. There are millions of kids—hell, and adults—who have spent their lives being told that other people’s stories are the stories that matter. This movie is escapism for the gay kid who has never seen a movie where queer people get happily ever after.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “This movie is saccharine nonsense.”

“It’s subversive.”

Grantaire shifts in his seat, regarding a sullen Enjolras. “Oh my Meryl, you actually believe that. You actually believe that one shitty romantic comedy will fix all the issues society has with sexuality. That naivety might actually be adorable if it weren’t so tragic.”

“This movie’s ordinary-ness is what makes the difference. It would have been so easy for Jehan to write a novel about a man and a woman. But they didn’t. They wrote a novel about two men. Someday, in no small part due to this movie, a mainstream romantic comedy where the leads are queer will not be a big deal. I wish to Meryl that we were there already. But we aren’t. And we can do something about that.”

“Yeah, let’s give the queer community the same problematic, unrealistic, unhealthy, idealized expectations that we give the straights! Progress! Equality!”

A PA appears out of nowhere to summon them to set.

Grantaire is beginning to think that Courfeyrac has a sixth sense for when Enjolras is losing an argument, and sends the PAs to be a human pause button.

* * *

 

 _Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted was right there in front of you_  
_Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words to your old favorite song_  
_Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword and realizing there’s no right answer  
_ _Regretting him was like wishing you never found out that love could be that strong_

* * *

Somewhere around two-thirds of the way through the shoot, Enjolras stops picking fights with Grantaire. He almost stops talking to him entirely. Which is pretty much the same thing.

It shouldn’t throw him off as much as it does.

He’s gotten used to having Enjolras constantly jabbering about whatever it is he managed to find in his bag of fucks to give.

It’s not Enjolras not talking to him that he finds disconcerting, it’s the suddenness and degree of the change that’s uncomfortable.

He tells himself he’s glad to be able to do his work in peace, but he doesn’t entirely believe it.

Because he definitely _doesn’t_ want to spend all of his free time fending off Enjolras’ attempts to convert him to his “use Hollywood to subvert all the problematic norms of society” campaign. He definitely _doesn’t_ miss all those conversations.

It takes them two weeks to shoot a ninety second sex scene.

They are the worst two weeks of Grantaire’s life, and he’s been through some rough shit.

The emotional whiplash is starting to take a toll.

While the camera is rolling, Enjolras is all over him. His hands are _everywhere_ , his lips are soft but demanding, his eyes focused with an intensity that is absolutely terrifying.

But as soon as Courf calls “cut,” Enjolras shrinks away. He retreats so fast that Grantaire doesn’t even have time to register that it’s happening.

He’s just left there, feeling cold and empty.

Grantaire knows, in the rational part of his brain, that Courf calling “cut” is the border between what is real and what is acting. That when Enjolras looks at him with pure, unmistakable desire, it isn’t Enjolras looking at Grantaire, but Tom looking at Eddie.

They are coworkers, doing their jobs.

Their job consists, in this case, of playfully throwing paint at each other and then simulating sex, but it’s still their job.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. Grantaire can lecture himself on compartmentalization until he’s blue in the face, but Enjolras’ instant disappearances still feel like rejection. Which is probably exactly how he wants it to feel.

Only a handful of crew members are allowed on set for the sex scenes, so it’s quieter than usual between takes.

Grantaire misses the background noise. He misses being able to be almost invisible as everyone else goes about their business. But with only Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and two other crew members, plus himself and Enjolras, it’s uncomfortably quiet.

As hard as it is to film the love scene, the scenes that follow it are even worse.

He’s carefully positioned on a bed, sheets carefully draped to give the illusion of nakedness, his hair carefully mussed by Cosette’s arsenal of combs, surrounded by lights carefully positioned to give the illusion of soft morning sunlight, and he’s got an equally carefully prepared Enjolras draped over him.

He can’t help but think of all those photos of cats sitting on people’s keyboards. In the way, preventing people from being able to work effectively, obnoxiously resistant to being moved, and yet completely disdainful of any actual attempt at affection.

Grantaire should get a cat. A cat that hates him. He’ll name it Enjolras.

* * *

_I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing_  
_Just prayin' to a god that I don't believe in_  
_'Cause I got time while he got freedom  
_ _'Cause when a heart breaks no it don't break even_

 _What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you,_  
_And what am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up and you're OK_  
_I'm falling to pieces, yeah,  
_ _I'm falling to pieces_

* * *

“And cut! Thanks everyone! Barring some major technical disaster, that’s a wrap!”

There’s a smattering of applause when Courf calls the final cut of the shoot.

Grantaire sinks into his chair, grabbing a water bottle.

It’s over.

In a day or two, he’ll be back in LA. Back in the traffic and the smog and the auditions and the not seeing Enjolras every day.

If Grantaire was delusional, he could convince himself that now that they were done working together, Enjolras might possibly be interested in actually being friends, but Grantaire knows that’s pointless.

It’s over.

He sleepwalks through the wrap party, somehow joining Musichetta for a karaoke rendition of “Super Trouper” that Cosette seems to think is the greatest thing she’s ever witnessed.

In the morning, he hugs Musichetta goodbye and promises to keep in touch. He actually means it.

When he gets back to his house in LA, he texts Bahorel.

_I’m back in town after doing that movie you thought I should do. You are the fucking worst._

He isn’t sure whether he really means that for Bahorel, or for himself.

* * *

_So I would choose to be with you_  
_That's if the choice were mine to make_  
_But you can make decisions too  
_ _And you can have this heart to break_

* * *

Grantaire keeps telling himself it shouldn’t hurt this much.

It’s a job. It’s only a job.

It’s his job to become someone else for a while, and then to walk away when it’s all over.

But this one is different. He knew from the beginning that this one would be impossible to leave behind, but he took the job anyway because he has terrible self-preservation instincts or masochistic tendencies or both.

And now the job is over, and he feels completely aimless. Untethered.

He shoots some guest appearances on TV shows. He shoots a couple cameo roles for movies. He even does a music video.

He turns down every job that would last more than two days.

The poster for _Somewhere to Begin_ is released a few weeks after filming wraps. 

It appears _everywhere_. It pops up as an ad every time he does anything on the internet, taunting him.

He checks for updates on his adblocker. Instead of updating, he just deletes it.

He posts another cover.

On the day the trailer is released, Grantaire briefly considers faking his own disappearance before deciding that it would be too much work.

His publicist is emailing updates to the press tour itinerary almost every hour.

He’s more afraid of doing the press for this movie than he is of death. The questions will be about how romantic, how sweet, how wonderful the story is. About how groundbreaking this film is, and what does that mean to him, how proud is he to have this impact, this legacy?

The questions will be about what it was like to work with Enjolras.

And there will be absolutely no way he can tell the truth, and no way he’ll be able to lie convincingly.

Everyone will see how miserable he is, and everyone will make fun of the movie. It will tank at the box office, and ruin the chances of any further blockbuster gay rom-coms.

The movie will become a punchline.

Enjolras will be furious.

And Enjolras will blame him, completely ignorant of the irony—that Grantaire being pathetically in love with him is what makes the press tour so terrible.

So he records and posts another cover instead. He’s given up on trying to be subtle with his song choices.

* * *

_Say something, I’m giving up on you_  
_I’ll be the one, if you want me to_  
_Anywhere, I would have followed you  
_ _Say something, I’m giving up on you_

* * *

Grantaire can’t remember ever seeing clouds like this in Los Angeles. The sky is dark, angry, threatening. There’s an edge of danger in the air, and it makes him uneasy.

It’s a Friday. Grantaire has some meetings at studios in the morning, and gets home around three.

The rain starts in earnest right as Grantaire starts eating dinner.

Grantaire had briefly considered going out and raising hell with some friends, but this weather is better for staying in with a beer and trying to find reasons to turn down every role his agent wants him to consider.

He’s sprawled on the couch, channel-surfing, pointedly ignoring the pile of scripts on the coffee table, when the doorbell rings. He takes a sip of beer and turns the volume up. Someone obviously has the wrong address—he’s certainly not expecting anyone.

It rings again, followed by a persistent knock.

Bloody hell.

He launches himself to his feet, groaning, and shuffles to the door. He pulls it open. It had better not be a fucking axe murderer or some shit.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Enjolras shivers. “Hello to you too.”

Grantaire opens the door wider and beckons Enjolras in. “Jesus Meryl Christ, did you _walk_ here? I’m going to have to have a chat with the security folks about allowing in the riff-raff.”

“I’m very persuasive. I may have convinced him that it was a medical emergency.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I need an excuse to drop by and visit a costar and friend?”

Grantaire snorts. Enjolras shakes his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of some of the water clinging to his hair. Small drops splatter all over Grantaire’s foyer.

“You’re not exactly the ‘dropping by’ type. And I wouldn’t exactly say that we’re friends.”

“So I wanted to see you. Is that a problem?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“I miss you.”

“You know, they have these marvelous things called _phones_. You can call people, you can even send little written messages. With words. And little cartoon representations of things. It’s terrific. You should try it sometime.”

“It’s not the same,” Enjolras whispers, gazing intently at the floor.

“The same as what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I miss you, and I just… I needed to see you.”

Grantaire is fighting the urge to bash his head against the wall.

“So you thought you’d turn up at the house of someone you used to work with, someone you can’t stand, in the middle of a monsoon of biblical proportions, no less. You make absolutely no sense.”

Enjolras regards him for a moment. His eyes narrow, but Grantaire doesn’t find the expression hostile this time. It feels almost… fond.

“You think I can’t stand you?” Enjolras asks quietly.

Grantaire’s laugh is hollow, bitter.

“You made it perfectly obvious, so let’s go through the evidence, shall we? You spent the entire shoot telling me that everything I believe, or don’t believe, is wrong. You dropped me like a hot potato every time Courf said ‘cut.’ I mean, you ran to the other side of the room as fast as you could. So yeah, between the constantly picking a fight with me and the running away, you made it abundantly clear that you would rather have had anyone else playing Eddie.”

“That’s not true.”

“What’s not true?”

“That I wanted someone else playing Eddie. Okay, yeah, maybe at first, but not for long.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks for clearing that up. See you for the press tour. Have a nice day.” Grantaire opens the front door.

Enjolras doesn’t move. He stares at the floor, twisting his hand in the hem of his shirt.

“I watched all your covers.” He says quietly.

“You _what_?”

“On YouTube.” Enjolras takes a deep breath and meets Grantaire’s eyes. “I took some time off from social media, so I hadn’t seen them. Okay, that’s a lie. I took some time off from _your_ social media. During the shoot, I had to stop looking at your Instagram and your Twitter and stuff, because I was analyzing everything, looking for hints that you were thinking about me. Like, I was borderline Instagram stalking you, while we were working together. You thought I hated you, and I thought you hated me. I tried to get over you. But today I gave in, and I watched all these covers for the first time, and…”

Grantaire goes blank. Even his most optimistic fantasies couldn’t prepare him for this.

As the seconds tick by in silence, the hope and confidence in Enjolras’ expression dim until he’s horrified.

“Oh, I’m so arrogant. I assumed they were about me… Oh god. Oh no. I’m so sorry. I—“

He moves towards the still-open door, but Grantaire shuts it.

“Wait.”

“Okay.”

Grantaire has to work very, very hard to keep his expression neutral.

“You’re so vain,” he says, as evenly as he can. “You probably think this song is about you.”

He will get hell for it later, but he greatly enjoys watching Enjolras try to contain his freakout.

Grantaire can only hold on a few more seconds before he bursts into laughter.

“Of _course_ I was singing about you.”

The breath Enjolras lets out seems to release all the tension from his body. His fingers brush against the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt, and it’s simultaneously overwhelming and not enough.

“I know that my running away between takes hurt you, for which I am very sorry. That was self-preservation. The lines between acting and reality were becoming so blurred for me, and if I didn’t take that time, if I didn’t physically move away from you, I would have forgotten that I was acting at all.”

“Well, we’re not acting anymore.”

Enjolras’ grin is absolutely wicked, and Grantaire has no doubt about what will happen next.

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

Grantaire has only about a second and a half to appreciate the fact that Enjolras is fixing the Desire Eyes on _him_ before Enjolras is kissing him.

And _holy shit_.

Contrary to what Grantaire thought at the time, Enjolras _had_ been holding something back every time Tom and Eddie had kissed.

Maybe it’s just the freedom of actually being themselves.

Every movement, every noise, is familiar and entirely new. They’ve done this—well, an imitation of this—before, but this time there’s no Courfeyrac to yell “cut,” no Feuilly with his lightmeter, no fussing over lines, no Cosette attacking them with a comb and a can of hairspray.

This time it’s not Tom and Eddie. It’s Enjolras and Grantaire.

* * *

_What a feeling in my soul_  
_Love burns brighter than sunshine_  
_It’s brighter than sunshine_  
_Let the rain fall I don’t care_  
_I’m yours and suddenly you’re mine_  
_Suddenly you’re mine  
_ _And it’s brighter than sunshine_

* * *

Today, of all days, Grantaire expects his body to want him to sleep in.

He glances over at the clock once he realizes that his eyes are open. It’s a little after 7:30.

The storm is gone, and the mountain air wafting in through the open windows is cool and dry.

Enjolras is still asleep, and this is possibly the most beautiful moment of Grantaire’s life.

Enjolras has his arms wrapped around Grantaire’s torso, his face against Grantaire’s bare chest.

Grantaire runs a hand over Enjolras’ hair and presses a few kisses to his forehead. He would love to stay here, but there’s something else he needs to do. And the optimistic part of him is saying that there will be plenty more mornings like this.

He presses another kiss into Enjolras’ unruly mane and rolls out of bed. He grabs a pair of boxers off the floor—he’s not even sure who they actually belong to—and pulls on, but doesn’t button, his plaid shirt from yesterday.

His computer is on the counter in the kitchen, and his guitar is propped in a corner in the living room. He grabs them both and heads out to the balcony. After tuning the guitar and running through the chords, he turns on the webcam and starts recording.

He’s launching into the final chorus when the door to the balcony opens, and Enjolras makes his way out, holding a mug with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other.

He stands still and observes for a moment. Still recording, Grantaire doesn’t miss a beat. He continues to strum away, crooning lyrics that are now even more heartfelt. But he’s biting back a smile, glancing over the webcam at Enjolras, who is now leaning against the doorframe, sipping from the mug with a fond smile on his face.

Grantaire finishes the last chord and stops the recording.

“Brighter than sunshine, hmm?”

Grantaire shrugs and places the guitar on the table in front of him. “It seemed fitting.”

They both fall silent, and Grantaire decides it’s a companionable one.

“That’s going to break the internet,” Enjolras says after a while.

“Yeah. I mean, you’re okay with me posting that? I’ve been less and less subtle lately, but this would be a new level of blatant.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says as walks over to Grantaire, takes his hand, and pulls him up. “It’s nice to see you happy in one of these. You seemed so miserable in all the others.”

“Of fucking _course_ I was miserable,” Grantaire snorts, leaning against the balcony railing. “The guy I was falling in love with couldn’t stand me. Or so I thought. With good reason, I might add.”

Enjolras grows serious. “…the guy you were falling in love with?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt that out. Shit.”

“Please don’t be sorry. And don’t take it back. That would be a real shame, considering I’m pretty sure I’m already there.”

“Already where?”

“In love with you.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire is pretty sure he’s never grinned so wide in his life.

“Yeah.”

This kiss doesn’t have the urgent desperation of last night, but it’s no less heady. Grantaire could happily spend eternity in this moment.

“Wait, stay there for a second.”

Grantaire grabs his phone and snaps a few photos.

“Are you objectifying me?” Enjolras calls over his shoulder.

“No.”

“It feels like you are.”

“If this was only about your body, I would be objectifying you. But it’s about so, so much more. Someone gave me a lecture about objectification over lunch once. Well, more than once, but the first one was over lunch.”

Enjolras kisses him. “Who knew you were paying attention.”

“Oh, I wasn’t, most of the time, but you are incredibly persistent.”

“Alright, now come on. We’ve got breakfast to make and the internet to break, and time’s a-wastin’.”

He posts the photo on Instagram—Enjolras leaning against the balcony railing, looking out at the hills, his back to the camera. The significance would be easy to miss without context, but Grantaire really doesn’t feel that any is necessary. Anyone who’s seen his covers will recognize that balcony, and Enjolras is, well, Enjolras.

He captions it with just a heart emoji.

A few hours later, his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Bahorel.

_Just saw your Insta. You’re fucking welcome._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading!
> 
> I started writing this fic almost three years ago. (Yeah. I know.) I intended for it to be my contribution to the Les Mis Big Bang 2014, but the fic really didn't want to be written at that point. So I wrote Lifelong Love Letter instead. I regret nothing.
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this Tumblr post.](http://imaginelesmiserables-blog.tumblr.com/post/61204163371/fuck-imagine-an-au-with-enjorlas-and-grantaire-as)
> 
> [Here](http://8tracks.com/missmarionmac/cinema-verite) is a playlist with all the songs Grantaire covers.
> 
> The penultimate scene, where Enjolras shows up and Grantaire's house, was originally very different. I decided it didn't really mesh with the tone of the rest of the fic, so I rewrote almost all of it. I still love the original version, and you can read it [here](http://missmarionmac.tumblr.com/post/157719825189/alternate-ending-ish-to-cinema-v%C3%A9rit%C3%A9), if that strikes your fancy.


End file.
